


Safest Spaces

by BrosleCub12



Series: The Hardest Place [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Best Friends, Character Death (off-screen), Cooking, Drunken Shenanigans, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hugging, Hurt/Comfort, Shameless Disney inclusions, The Doctor is a good pal, They Act Like Children, human-Doctor, remembering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5377199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Life’s not like the films, though, is it?’ Clara folds her arms and John shrugs – no it’s not, good observation; animals don’t sing for one thing (well, unless they’re birds and even <i>that’s</i> a stretch) and they certainly don’t chum up with species they’re supposed to eat. Sequel to <i>The Hardest Place.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Safest Spaces

**Author's Note:**

> Avast, a sequel; ten-plus pages of... well, this. This story follows my previous human-AU, the Hardest Place, and it probably won't make sense unless you read that one first, [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5076985). The short version is: the Twelfth Doctor is a human called (rather predictably, I know) John Smith, Clara is still Clara and they share a house and several heartfelt conversations. Rated T for safety's sake, just due to the content of grief and mourning and also one or two swear words.
> 
> This has been un-beta'ed, so constructive comments would be more than welcome, but I would like to dedicate this to all the readers kind enough to leave comments and kudos on the first fic - in particular, rachelindeed, who has proved to be an unwavering source of support over a difficult year and who kindly beta'ed THP. I'm finding this universe very helpful in coming to terms with a loss in my own life; I hope you enjoy this one.

*

On the 11th anniversary of the date when Eleanor Oswald was diagnosed with incurable cancer and coincidentally, two years to the day when Danny Pink and Clara Oswald met for the first time, John Smith finishes off his work in his office, leaves the University campus and drops into Sainsbury’s on the way home to do a small food shop.

Once home, once he’s changed out of his work clothes and into something a little more casual, he heads for the kitchen and sets about making a shepherd’s pie – one of Clara’s favourite meals and his as well, obviously, or he might not have bothered otherwise. No point making it unless more than one person’s going to eat it (and since Clara arrived, she’s been bullying him into eating better meals for himself; apparently chocolate hobnobs are not a substantial breakfast food).

He chops onions (wipes his eyes once or twice), carrots, mushrooms, anything that’s good for the body, good for feeling good. Mashing potatoes takes a while and frankly is painful on the arms, but he manages it, pretends the potatoes are the (many) people who irritate him to kingdom come and shoves it all into the oven, mops his hands, cleans the kitchen. There’s still one or two dishes out from Clara’s attempt at a soufflé last night; she’s getting better and he washes those too, glancing at his watch. She’s peculiarly late for a Friday.  

*

By nine o’clock, it becomes really rather glaringly obvious that Clara isn’t going to be coming home anytime soon and so John wraps everything up, puts the shepherd’s pie away for another day, decides to go out for a walk.

Late autumn in the city is an odd one; nice to walk along in the brisk evening, seeing your own breath and far less distracting than it is during the day, when it’s all idiots with their PadPods and IKindles and Galaxy-chocolate-phones, whatever they call them, looking down at them as they walk and bumping into the people around them. At night though, it’s just the nearby park, the city-lights, stars above, with all the students gone home to revise and drink, whichever comes first. As though a little time, a little space has been made; a nice dark blanket over the less favourable side of humanity. A ‘shut the hell up and be quiet, the day is done.’

There’s a church on the route, a typical Anglican one, kept open all hours and Perkins, the maintenance man from the University, is often in there cleaning as a side-job, or helping to arrange the flowers on the weekends for the events the next day, a wedding or a funeral or a baptism. He seems to like it. On a whim, John takes a detour, heads up the path to the church, through the old cemetery and its centuries’ old stone, glancing at the various markers and one or two frankly creepy marble angels that people pay for to guard their graves for eternity. Eleanor Oswald isn’t buried here; she’s buried miles away, in another place, another city, so he’s not sure exactly what he’s doing – only that he’s doing it.

Danny Pink isn’t here, either.

The church is cool and quiet, lit dimly with just enough light to make his way through and up the aisle. John’s not what you would call a typical churchgoer, but there’s no denying the calm of the church, when the world outside gets too much. Particularly for his head, where calm hardly ever seems present.

Perkins is nearby; he has the dustpan and brush out and is whistling to himself. On looking up to see John, he beams and tips his hat; John smiles back as he heads towards the side-altar, where the candles are. Most of them have long burned out throughout the day, but the main candle, the source of the light, is still going.

A beacon for anyone, John thinks and after a moment of just standing in the silence and watching the flame flicker, he digs out a twenty-pence piece to slot into the little bank beneath. Then he takes up the wick and a new candle and lights it for Clara’s mother.

(He doesn’t know if Clara has done this; if Clara’s gran has done this, if Clara’s father has done this – considering whom he’s married since, he’s not really sure).

He steps back, hands in his pockets, looks up at the stained glass window; with the dark outside, he can barely make out the shapes, only know that they form some image or other of lessons being taught and learnt; different kinds of love being spread and encouraged. Clara followed her mother into teaching.

Then, after another moment’s thought, he takes up another candle and lights it for Danny, because it makes sense that someone should.

*

Later on, just after midnight – three hours and a cup of tea with Perkins whilst helping him to arrange some rather nice lilies later – John is lying in his customary position across the sofa when there’s a clattering sound of a key in a lock and even more clattering as someone – drunk, giggling and most likely short and neurotic with dark hair – stumbles into their hallway, with a little crow of _‘Myyyyyyste-reee-ous girl…!’_ John sighs and rushes through, in time for an utterly sloshed Clara to pretty much fall on top of him, beaming like there’s no tomorrow. On reflex, his arms reach up to grab her and then it’s a little awkward, because she’s _heavy,_ somehow, her muscles uncoordinated and _very_ drunk and if he lets go she really will fall to the floor.

 _‘Hiiiiii,’_ Clara grins, drawing out the ‘I’ to irritating degrees. John moves into action, shifting so that one of her arms is around his shoulders, and carefully guides her into the lounge, sits her down on her usual seat, pulls back to lean against the sofa arm as he inspects her.

She looks – different. She’s wearing a kind of… maroon-mauve suit and tie arrangement…thing, which suits her small figure nonetheless (but then it’s Clara, after all) but one she wouldn’t have worn to school – ah, of course. She must have come home ahead of him to change, gone out again before he arrived. Although she looks a little worse for wear – stains on the jacket, tie ruffled, hair a right mess – she looks _happy_ all the same, eyes dilated and positively beaming. Almost shining, it seems and grinning up at him like an idiot; lifting up a hand to wave at him.

‘Hello,’ John waves his own hand back in greeting. ‘Good night?’

‘Adrian,’ Clara waves a hand around, referring to her nice young teacher friend with the bowtie and the floppy hair, and then leans back, lazily. ‘Took some of us out. Lost track of time.’ She giggles up at him. ‘Sorry I didn’t text.’

John lifts his shoulders. ‘Easily done.’ He’s not Clara’s boyfriend or anything, she’s completely entitled to go out for the evening (needs to remind her of that when she’s sober; she really doesn’t need to explain). There’s a few moments silence in which Clara seems interested in creating pictures and universes out of the white patterned swirls of the ceiling before John decides one of them needs to do something sensible and it probably ought to be him, for a change.

‘Come on, then,’ he stands, holds out an arm towards her. ‘Suppose you’ll need help getting upstairs.’

Clara gives a single, cheery nod and holds out a hand, is yanked to her feet. ‘Bedtime.’ She all but collapses against him, all over again. ‘Thankyou.’

‘Why do you have to laugh so much when you’re drunk?’ He’s asked this question several times over his lifetime and he still doesn’t have a clear answer about it. Oh, to be young and wear suit and tie combinations.

Clara pats at the old holey jumper he’s wearing, at random, before asking, with a sudden quizzical frown. ‘Y’weren’t waiting up for me, were you?’

‘Why would I do that?’ he asks loftily. ‘Essays need marking and _The Vicar of Dibley_ was on, Dawn French was showing me how to eat several Christmas dinners at once. I do have a life as well, Clara.’

‘Yeah, okay,’ and there, again, _another_ giggle and John huffs, replaces the arm around his shoulders – the left one, this time – and guides her towards the stairs.

Probably should have turned the hallway light on first, he realises too late as he and Clara – but mainly him, as he’s driving – bump into the banister, knock their shins on the first step and he huffs and pulls her up, all the way up the stairs, one arm on the banister, the other around her shoulders (not her waist. Definitely not her waist; can’t do that, even if it would give better co-ordination) using the light of the streetlamps outside, painting the walls here and there and giving them both _just_ enough of a gleam to steer by, across the landing and into Clara’s room with its reassurance of a warm bed, on which to deposit her and let her sleep this off in peace.

When he flicks on the light with his spare hand, Clara groans at the shock of it and buries her face in his shoulder.

‘Oh, stop whining!’ John snaps – this being a charitable housemate/friend thing isn’t really top of his list of _Things I’m Good At_ – and he half-lowers, half lets her fall onto her bed with a reassuring bounce. There, done and dusted.

 _‘You,’_ Clara announces, jabbing a finger at him and John can’t help it; he jumps backwards. ‘You are _such_ a good friend, you know that? Bringing me up here like this.’ She gives a chuckle – not a giggle, this one sounds more like a chuckle, definitely – and flips herself backwards against the duvet with a happy sigh. ‘Oh, that’s nice.’

John can’t help it; he really, really wants to bite back on the grin that’s tickling threateningly around his mouth, honestly, he does. He really, really does.

‘Water?’ he asks in a feeble attempt at subterfuge. A thumbs-up is his answer. ‘Right.’

On his return, with a huge pint-glass of the clear stuff, he finds Clara on the edge of the bed, trying rather meekly to get undressed – jacket off, but she’s having a bit too much trouble with the tie.

‘Look at me,’ she beams up at him, moving her head around. He raises an eyebrow as he holds the water out. ‘No, no, look at me.’

‘Yeah. Looking.’ Putting the glass down on her bedside table, John’s eyes linger on the two photographs there – one, a sixteen year old Clara with her mother (not too long, he thinks, before Mrs Oswald was diagnosed) and the other, a twenty-seven year old Clara, sober, and grinning at the camera as she leans against one Danny Pink, a month before his sudden, unexpected death.

Clara’s eyes follow his to the photos and something in the room _shifts._ She reaches out for the water, takes a long sip.

 ‘You know, River was _really_ wrong to dump you?’ she adds, suddenly looking both squiffy and contemplative; oh no, this can’t end well. ‘I mean, okay, you’re not perfect – and no, you’re far from it, far, far, far, _far_ from it – ‘

‘Thankyou,’ John remarks; all things considered, that’s actually rather generous.

‘ - but come on, really, I mean, _why_ would she do that? You’re not… well, I mean. You’re not _that_ bad, are you?’

John can’t help it – he really does smile at that. Oh, Clara. Clara, Clara, Clara. Has she met him? She does live with him, doesn’t she? She does bicker with him like clockwork every day, doesn’t she? He often has to duck his head because of the ever-growing likelihood that she’ll hurl something at it, doesn’t he? People really are so much kinder when they’re drunk, he reflects.

‘I’m so much worse than that,’ he tells her, with a shrug, because he is, because he could be. He just won’t be; well. He tries not to be, at the very least. Tries, for Clara and for a few good people who matter.

‘Got some PJs?’ he asks instead, preparing to leave.

‘Mm-hm,’ Clara grins and then points at her chest of drawers, namely, the second shelf. John looks between her and the index finger and then gets the hint; rolls his eyes and heads towards the chest. He becomes very uncomfortable very quickly over the fact that he’s doing this at all – albeit with Clara’s permission – and so tries to make extremely short work of it.  

‘Why don’t we just hire a butler like _I_ suggested when you first moved in and were complaining about the house needing a little spruce-up?’ he throws over his shoulder.

‘There was dust _everywhere!’_ Clara slurs, throwing her hands up before letting them fall limply back on the mattress with a soft thump while John quickly scans the drawer; Clara seems to favour sleeveless shirt and stripes combinations, so he tugs out a couple of hopefuls and brings them across, holds them out. When Clara doesn’t move to take them, he sighs and puts them down beside her on the bed, carefully folded.

Clara beams then, reaches for him and before John knows what’s happening, before he can so much as give his usual undignified yelp of ‘No, against the hugging!’ that normally accompanies these things, he’s losing balance; falls forward.

And then he’s lying. On top. Of Clara. _On her bed._

Things just got supremely awkward.

‘Clara,’ he snarls, managing to get a hand up so he can jab his index finger down at her with all the ferocity of a man currently being held in place in a huge, happy hug by his completely sozzled best friend, ‘let me go. _Now.’_

Underneath him – underneath him! – spreadeagled on the bed, Clara giggles, but it’s oddly tired, somehow – or perhaps it’s just because John is just this close and he watches, wills himself to remain calm, as Clara reaches up to ruffle his hair, in its usual tufted mane, before suddenly – oh, for Pete’s sake – landing a rather sloppy kiss on his cheek.

‘You’re like a human… Grumpy Cat. Cat that’s grumpy,’ she says this like a compliment, a kind of... something almost akin to fondness (or maybe that’s just his imagination) beneath it and then seems to clock the look on his face. ‘S’okay. I trust you.’ She grins up at him; lets her hands fall back and John immediately launches himself back up from the bed. He wonders if he’ll have to decontaminate his face; who knows what they put in the drinks in bars these days.

‘Pyjamas,’ he barks. ‘Bed. Sleep.’ He firmly places the water back in her hand. _‘Hydration.’_

Then he stomps out and practically slams the door behind him. Bloody secondary school teachers and their drinking habits.

*

The next morning comes with Clara throwing up, loudly and messily, in the bathroom. John rolls his eyes at his bedroom ceiling, pulls his pillow over his head to cut out the sounds of vomiting. Two minutes later he’s up and going in search of more water and some painkillers – the really good ones that actually work that he keeps stashed away, not the cheap ones – and goes to leave both by Clara’s bed, along with the bucket under the sink.

She comes shuffling down the stairs at midday, morning-after hair making her look as though she’s stuck her thumbs into a socket just to see what would happen (John did that once; it wasn’t pretty) and face pale and pasty, like a person who’s tried to colour their face in with white makeup and just ended using a grey crayon.

He puts the kettle on (Clara sits with her head in her hands at the table, as though the rattling sound of the boiler is personally offensive to her) and then while he’s making a cup of the caffeinated stuff for Clara – in the extra-large mug with _World’s Best Teacher_ painted across the side; they have several of these, courtesy of Clara’s various pupils, but this is the emergency one – Clara mumbles from behind her hands.

‘Sorry about last night.’

He throws a small, dry tilt of the mouth in her direction. Trust her to think of something like that, even through a hangover. He doesn’t understand what the big deal is.

‘Sprite’s in the fridge,’ he says instead; bubbles are really good for nausea (he should know) and immediately, Clara is up and heading in that direction. He hears her rummaging around; then the noise abruptly stops.

‘Oh,’ she says, blinking at one of the shelves. ‘Did you make that?’ John glances across and around the door; she’s pointing at the pie, wrapped up in cling-film.

‘I had the kitchen to myself for a change,’ he shrugs, ‘not really had a minute since you started baking again.’

He watches her gaze snap towards the calendar, not because she’s forgotten, but because she’s putting two and two together.

 ‘…Did you make it for me?’

‘Well. Made it for us, but that’s good too,’ he says, putting the coffee down beside her; her hand inches towards the mug and she takes a long, long sip.

‘We went out to a bar,’ she tells him, hair hanging over the mug as if to hide her face. ‘Then we went on to a club.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ John says into his coffee. It sounds hideous. Clubs are stupid places, all bright lights and smoke and half the people thinking they can dance better than their friends and the other half wishing they were at home in their pyjamas and cursing their friends for bringing them out at all. Clara chuckles, playing with her hands on the table in front of her.

‘I thought a drink would be nice. Adrian was his friend as well.’ Another pause, another sip of coffee; then she moves, propping her chin on one hand as she looks up at him. ‘I wanted…’

To celebrate them, he thinks, to remember they were here. And, probably, to forget the old man and his house with the blue door, just for a while, which is fine. He’s by no means all Clara has – he won’t flatter himself like that and they’d well and truly be doomed if that were the case – and he refuses to think that it’s the other way around. Facts are, he has Clara on-hand to care when he doesn’t; that’s good enough.   

‘It’s okay,’ he says, because he can’t be sure that he wouldn’t have done the same thing, really, once upon a time. He waits, but there’s nothing else, so he quietly puts a bacon roll on the table beside her and, with his own roll in hand, leaves her to go and reply to some emails.   

*

Later that afternoon, he finds her in the lounge, still in her pyjamas, hunched over the coffee-table, eyes fixed on the television and hand fixed over her mouth; follows the sad sounds of a mother’s lament to the screen where little Dumbo is currently being rocked in Mrs Jumbo’s trunk.

He reaches for the remote as she registers his presence, hits the ‘pause’ button just as the scene is drawing to a close. In the silence that follows, Clara hastens to wipe her eyes with her sleeves; she doesn’t say anything, but her scrunched, wet face and the unhappy downturn of her mouth speak for themselves. Underneath all of that, though, she looks just a _little_ embarrassed.

John huffs and sits down beside her, on the edge of the sofa, digs in his pockets for, well, something – he’s not sure Clara carries a handkerchief, all the kids today seem too modern for it. He does, though – a clean one, blue, with stars in the corners (yes, he knows) and offers it to her. She starts, but takes it, wipes her eyes, blows her nose – yeah, she can keep that now, ta.

‘Sorry,’ he says instead, very carefully and also partly to avoid a heavy, meaningful silence. ‘Gets everyone, that; I remember howling like a baby the first fifty-seven times. Even River shed a tear, I’ve got it on film.’ He throws a cheeky grin her way, but Clara is biting her lip and doesn’t seem to want to look right at him.

‘I’m not,’ she manages finally. ‘I mean, I’m not. I’ve got Dad. I’ve got Gran.’ She runs her hand through her hair; it lingers over one side of her head. ‘Look, I know. I mean, like we _said._ Ten years.’ She spreads her hands wide; John just shrugs and spreads his own straight back at her in careless imitation.

‘You were her comet,’ he tries to say it as gently as he can; he’s out of practice, here and, really, this is Clara’s department. ‘I suppose… I wonder if she’d just want you all… _this,_ for too long.’ He indicates Clara and her general countenance with a hand. He tries not to be too much of a hypocritical old tosser about it; not too long ago he had been encouraging Clara not to rush this whole healing process, after all. And yes, it’s intrusive, he realises that too late, but it’s really the only other way he knows how to say: _Seeing tears in your eyes bothers me. I know it shouldn’t, but it does._ That and: _Of course it’s fine to hurt. I’d just rather you didn _’t_  hurt for too long._

‘... And how, exactly, did you know my Mum’s nickname for me?’ Clara’s question is slow, even behind the muffle of the hanky.

‘Your dad told me.’ Well, it was really more of a warning than anything else, judging by the way Mr. Oswald – infinitely suspicious of this much-older man with whom his only daughter was going to live – had backed him up against the wall on the day he had helped Clara to move in, and told him in no uncertain terms that if any ‘funny business’ occurred (Was business funny? To John, it’s just irritating) or if John did anything to make Clara feel upset or unsafe _(Why the hell would I do **that?** _ John had wanted to bark) then there would be Consequences. John, for his part, had smiled and nodded and had heroically prevented himself from remarking on the fact that Mr. Oswald had gone from having perfectly satisfactory taste in women to the truly appalling, if you looked at his current, snobbish squeeze who didn’t want to admit that she would always be second-best to that first wife with the dark, kind eyes and soft smile that had so obviously been passed down to Clara – and so acted like a total cow in recompense for it.

Still: a laugh lifts Clara’s shoulders and she straightens up, abruptly. It’s just a little rewarding and John sits, looks around the room for a moment; turns his eyes on the DVD shelf and Clara’s rather extensive collection.  

‘Want to watch _The Lion King_ instead?’ he asks; Clara has a rather disturbing amount of Disney DVDs and the odd Blu-Ray. He doesn’t know what the world’s coming to; VHS always suited him fine.

‘What? You?’ Clara sounds surprised. John says nothing; finds the DVD he’s looking for, tugs it out, gives it an enticing wave over his shoulder. _You know you want to._ Anything, frankly, to help cheer her up, even just a bit.

‘Suppose I’d better get showered first,’ Clara gets to her feet, decision apparently made and John raises his eyebrows in acquiescence. ‘I must reek a bit.’

‘You do, actually, of booze and sick and that stickiness they get on the tables in those places,’ John agrees. ‘You know that horrid, sweet smell that hits your nostrils when you step into a nightclub and you think _why the hell am I not in my pyjamas right now, have I had a lobotomy in the last ten minutes that I somehow know nothing about_  - which, by the way, should be a warning sign? Yeah, you smell of that, too.’

‘Or maybe I’ll just drown you in the bath first,’ Clara tells him merrily as she heads for the stairs and he throws out a conceding hand.

‘That’s fine, that’s a perfectly normal reaction.’ And who says he isn’t generous?

*

They end up sitting side-by-side on the sofa with reheated shepherd’s pie on their laps and Clara is – well, she’s practically shovelling the stuff into her mouth, nodding in-between bites as she watches the telly. She likes it; good then. John has to admit, he’s pretty pleased with his efforts. He should cook more often, really.

‘Mmm, _lovely,’_ Clara wipes her mouth, before adding unnecessarily, ‘Thanks.’

‘Yeah, not a problem.’ John eats more slowly, moves his fork steadily around his plate while Simba waxes lyrical on the screen about the fact that he just can't wait to be king (why is there so much _singing?_ Surely, all the animals in the Outback should be more concerned over who to hunt for lunch?) 

Fifteen minutes later, when Mufasa dies (Scar. Oh, Scar, what a total bastard; John _still_ can’t get over this two decades on) Clara shifts and rests her head against John’s shoulder, leans against him and John lets it go.

He watches her feet, resting up on the coffee-table, jump along a little bit to _Hakuna Matata_ (what a moronic phrase; life is full of worries, the whole world is full of worries, but John supposes he and Clara can pretend otherwise – that’s technically what they’re doing, after all). He wonders if Clara would be more comfortable shifting away from him during that slightly cringey sequence when grown-up Simba and Nala are apparently singing to each other about their fast-moving romance without moving their mouths (seriously, how the hell do they do that? Are they psychic? How do they know how to keep their cues?) but she doesn’t, so. Okay, then.

By the time most of the shepherd’s pie is licked clean on the coffee table, and Simba and Nala are standing on ceremony on high, gazing lovingly down at creatures that in all actuality they will probably kill for food, John realises that Clara has closed her eyes a minute; asleep? No, she only seems to be resting them, resting against him.

‘Well,’ is all he says, as he stands abruptly to clear the plates, ‘we’ll have to figure out something else for you to do on the weekends if this is what you do for entertainment when you’re not teaching.’

‘Shut up,’ Clara grins; stretching out and yawning, ‘anyway, it’s educational; we’re doing _Hamlet_ this term.’

John splutters. ‘I’m sorry – this is based on _Hamlet?_ Oh, Shakespeare, you magnificent man, I am so, so sorry.’ He moves through to the kitchen, dumps the plates in the sink, runs the tap. ‘Much happier ending, though. Funny how that always seems to happen with good old Disney.’ He makes jazz-hands at Clara as she leans against the door-frame behind him; she gives a feeble chortle, but it’s an empty sound.

‘Life’s not like the films, though, is it?’ Clara folds her arms and John shrugs – no it’s not, good observation; animals don’t sing for one thing (well, unless they’re birds and even _that’s_ a stretch) and they certainly don’t chum up with species they’re supposed to eat.

‘I mean, I always,’ Clara steps inside, more of a shuffle than anything, ‘just… There’s the happy before, then the bad bit, and then the happy ending after all that bad stuff. And Simba… he loses his Dad, but then he finds a new life with Nala. They made a sequel about it and everything.’ She’s inspecting her nails as she says this; a faux-attempt at appearing calm before suddenly approaching the sink, taking the fairy-liquid from John and dumping a healthy load over their plates.

‘You can still have that,’ John protests to the side of her head because of course she can, of course Clara can have that, can’t she? ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, I realise this whole thing is actually a metaphor and you think Simba is actually you, but you know, Clara, it _is_ possible.’

He thinks she might make – _something –_ a scoffing sound, maybe, or just a dismissive noise of ‘Well…’ as she picks up the sponge and starts scrubbing, a little too vigorously. He’s not sure if he should pull out the marigolds; Clara is often quick to lecture him on the effects of fairy liquid on the hands (and he won’t lie, he has had to borrow some of her Aveeno cream once or twice after too much dignity left him with sore, rough hands; now, he wears those marigolds religiously).

‘You can, Clara,’ he tells her again.

‘I sometimes think about them, both of them,’ she confides, without looking up, squeezing the sponge like there’s no tomorrow. ‘Would she have liked him? Danny. And - would he have liked her? Would they have got on?’

Of course they would, John is supposed to say. Everyone seemed to like Danny and if Clara Oswald is a reflection of her mother, then he really doesn’t think Ellie Oswald would be the exception to this. It’s far too easy to say, from what he’s heard and what he observes, one of many social niceties he’s somehow missed the memo on. It’s not too hard to figure out that what Clara’s asking for, right now, is reassurance.

‘Well, what do you think?’ he tries with a raised shoulder as he watches her stack the plates; takes up the tea-towel and begins the drying duties in an attempt to feel useful.

‘I like to think so,’ Clara looks vaguely hopeful at the prospect; she hesitates at the sink’s edge and then changes direction, going across to put the kettle on instead. A little nervous; a little distracted. John pulls the plug.  

‘She sounds good, your Mum. Mrs Oswald the first.’ And then he adds over his shoulder, for her benefit, ‘And Danny. He was good, too.’

There’s a slightly hysterical giggle behind him; he watches the water and bubbles drain away with a gurgle. ‘You couldn’t stand him.’

‘I thought he was relentlessly cheerful and annoyingly over-protective and you know, I still think he would have made a good PE teacher,’ John counters, because it’s true. ‘The important thing is that he was important to you.’ He turns back to run water around the sink and out of nowhere, feels a pair of arms wrap around his shoulders as Clara rests her cheek against his jumper.

‘And Danny thought _you_ were extremely grouchy, wasn’t in the least surprised that you were divorced and that your eyebrows were too heavy,’ she says it cheerfully but without cruelty, her round eyes ever-so-slightly shimmer-y as she pats his sleeve. John’s eyes widen – _well, Mr. Pink, it’s like that, is it?_ – then softens. Bickering with Danny even after his death: it sums the pair of them up, all those tense hours of _sometimes_ agreeing (over Clara’s safety) and _often_ quarrelling (about everything else). He puts a hand back to touch her arm – _there there –_ and they stay there, just for a second or two longer.

‘I want to go for a walk,’ Clara suddenly declares out of nowhere and reaches out, tugs at his hand to turn him around.

‘A walk, why?’ John asks. He went on one last night; does he really need to do another one tonight? Are they stuck inside some kind of universe where they need to go walking every two minutes because it’s apparently necessary? Is Clara simply trying to tell him he’s fat and needs exercise? ‘Are you on some kind of weird diet? Is your blue dress not fitting anymore?’

‘Fresh air!’ Clara calls over her shoulder as she flounces towards the hallway where they keep their coats, ‘Saturday! Hungover! Because I said so!’

Well. Suppose that’s fair enough.

*

They go the opposite way this time, away from the church and further down, into the park itself. It would be very lovely if it weren’t for the fact that it’s been raining all afternoon and the grass is a little squelchy. It’s only started to clear up over the last hour; the clouds are slipping away and the moon is coming out. Somewhere along the way, Clara loops her arm through John’s and he lets her.

The park is deserted and John says nothing as Clara heads towards the gate, opens it; simply follows her through. There’s enough light by the moon and the nearby lamp-lights, but he gets his torch out anyway as Clara heads towards the swings; watches her wipe the dampness off with a glove and sit down on it. John supposes it makes sense that he sits down on the other one, so he does that.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asks, because he believes that’s what he should ask. Clara smiles, a soft slip of a thing, leaning her head against the chain.

‘Better. I spoke to my Dad earlier,’ she adds, ‘Linda had gone out with some of the girls, so. We had a chat.’

 _Linda has **friends?**_ John goggles at her, but lets it go. The other matter is more important.

‘That’s good.’ Then he’s not sure what else to say so he leaves it there. Clara chuckles and just…looks at him for a moment.

‘Thankyou,’ she says, finally. ‘Thanks for. For the pie. And for. Well.’ She makes a head gesture, which he simply takes to mean _this._ Well, then.

‘It’s fine, students’ graduations can wait.’ He throws a smile at her, followed by a playful wrinkle of the nose and it makes her laugh, ducking her head, hair falling down on one side, cloaking her face.

‘My Mum used to push me on the swings all the time,’ she says. ‘Once, I got my hair caught up in the chains – it was too long. Luckily, she had nail scissors. For emergencies,’ she adds with a smile, one that crinkles the corners of her compassionate eyes and it’s one of many little factoids, John Smith thinks, that explain the ways of Clara Oswald, all held inside her DNA.

She’s better. She’s getting better, slowly and steadily. He sits and observes as she leans back on the swing, supporting herself in midair. The next second, she lets go and lets herself forward and he watches her get into a rhythm, back and forth, her legs swinging herself into a balance, unashamedly playful. John considers it – _this is stupid –_ then huffs and humours her, grasps the chains and together they swing, him one way, she the other.

It’s. It’s a feeling John realises he’d forgotten. _Look at me!_  He rocks backwards and forwards under chilly stars, lets himself feel just that little bit breathless, that little lighter, the higher he gets. If he’d known this was enough to help dissipate the heaviness inside his head, he might not have spent all that money and time in therapy.

‘Race you to the moon,’ Clara calls over the chains and he kicks harder and they swing and swing until Clara lets go and sends herself flying; lands on her feet. John does the same, and ends up sprawled on the asphalt on his skinny behind. It makes Clara laugh, though – okay, it sends her positively howling – and he supposes it’s fine, as long as no-one else saw it.  

They walk home on unsteady feet, Clara still giggling incessantly as she loops her arm through John’s and it’s one of the best sounds he’s heard, just because it’s both genuine and (well, mostly) sober.

 _‘Basil the Great Mouse Detective,_ finish our marking and bed?’ she asks as they near their front door, sounding oddly hopeful.

‘You had me at _Basil._ One of the better Disneys, if you ask me,’ he grins, getting his keys out and unlocks the door. ‘Though at least my lot are old enough to use apostrophes properly…’

He gets whacked for that, just a light one on the arm and they grin at each other, showing teeth under the lamps, before Clara heads inside; John follows and shuts the old blue door securely behind them.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Perkins is from Mummy on the Orient Express; he's adorable, so had to include him. ^_^  
> Grumpy Cat, for those not in the know, is an online meme featuring a real-life cat with a grumpy face that has sparked a fanbase. And Clara has been indicated to be very fond of cats.


End file.
